


Hello, Neighbour

by spatialsoloist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, John goes on an adventure, M/M, and is sassy about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:59:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spatialsoloist/pseuds/spatialsoloist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, a down-on-his-luck blogger and perfectly average human being, was finally moving out of his sister’s basement. Not that there’s anything wrong with Harry’s basement; it was just, well, a bit embarrassing to have freeloaded for so long. But he’d just got a new job helping a local author promote his new fantasy novel, so now John has his eye on 221 B, the communal house in the sleepy neighbourhood of Baker Street, where he’d be splitting the living quarters with five others. It’s going to be a fresh start for him, John could feel it.</p><p>But first things first: why on earth are his housemates so…weird?</p><p>In short, John accidentally moves in with the same mythical creatures he’s blogging about. Oops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, Neighbour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Voodooling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voodooling/gifts).



> Happy (belated) Birthday, Senpai! I’m sorry this took so long to write, it’s a whopper.
> 
> Partially inspired by the plot of BBC’s Being Human.

“Hi, hello, welcome,” the lovely chestnut-haired young woman beamed, throwing the door wide open as John awkwardly struggled to make his way inside with a clunky suitcase in hand. “You must be John!”

“Yes, yes, that’s me,” John panted, finally setting his things down in the hallway. It was a long, spacey hallway, with the walls painted a light lavender colour and cluttered with a massive chest of drawers hosting an array of strange wooden statues, weird plants and lumpy rock figures. The interior of the house smelled like the sea: salty and fresh.

“I’m Molly Hooper,” Molly introduced, sticking her hand out for John to shake. Hurriedly wiping his clammy palm on his jeans, he grasped Molly’s smaller hand and gave it a firm shake as she suddenly yanked his hand up in turn and leaned down, dragging her nose over his knuckles, inhaling deeply—

 _Hold the fuck up_.

“What’re you doing?!” John yelped, jerking his hand back. Molly looked up, her face blank.

“What?” she asked.

John clutched his hand to his chest like it was burned, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. “Did you just _smell_ me?”

“…Yes?” Molly replied, giving John a strange sidelong glance. “You saw me. Uh, here, why don’t I help you take your stuff upstairs to your room and you can grab the rest of your things from the porch?”

And before John could protest, she hefted up his heavy suitcase with casual ease and made her way upstairs, humming cheerfully along the way.

… _what in the world just happened?_

+

[Two weeks earlier]

“What’s this?” Harry cried, snatching the newspaper clipping out of John’s hands before he could react.

“Hey, stop that, it’s mine!” John yelped, jumping up out of his chair, but his younger sister loped around him easily, holding the paper out of reach.

“ _House mate wanted_ ,” Harry read aloud, a frown creeping onto her features. “ _Cozy and comfortable living quarters and within walking distance of the tube. Second floor bedroom up for rent. Must be willing to share living quarters with four other individuals. If interested please contact M. Hooper at 647 743 6567._ What is this? Are you moving out?”

“Yes, I am,” John sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Great, his sister was upset now. “Look, I was going to tell you, Harry.”

“Sure you were,” Harry sneered, tossing the ad aside with badly disguised anger. “Just like you were gonna tell me you enlisted in the army. Or going to boarding school. Or that you were gay.”

“Hey, the gay one was a little difficult, okay!” John cried defensively. “I went to an all boys’ school, you don’t know what it’s like.”

Harry leveled him with a flat, unamused look. “Johnny, I walked in on you with that Ben guy five years after you graduated. If I hadn’t, I would have _never_ known.”

“We’re completely off topic,” John groaned, crossing his arms.

“What’s wrong with staying here?” Harry demanded.

“It’s a lovely house, Harry, really, but I’m a thirty year old bloke living in the basement of his _little sister’s girlfriend’s house_. It’s just not something— you know— look, I just wanna get back on my feet, okay? I don’t want to impose any more.”

“You are on your feet. You have a job.”

“Working as a supermarket aisle mopper from 8 till 11 isn’t a job I want, Harry.”

“You run a blog. Don’t you make money off that?”

“When people actually hire me to do promotions for them, which is what I was going to get at. An old friend of mine, Mike, wanted me to help one of his authors launch his new fantasy book. So, seeing that I’ve finally got a worthwhile job now, I thought I might as well… start fresh again,” John finished, somewhat lamely. Harry rolled her eyes.

“Do you even know these people?”

“I’ve called that Hooper,” John said defensively. “Lovely woman; had no trouble at all. I went and took a quick look down at the place and met Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. She makes excellent biscuits.”

Harry fixed him with a pitying look that John decided that he definitely did not like.

“Biscuits don’t make the person, Johnny. You didn’t even meet half the residents! What if—”

“It’ll be fine, honestly,” John cut in, too tired to argue anymore. “Look, just let me have this one shred of independence, okay?”

Harry sniffed, but she didn’t look like she wanted to beat him up anymore, so John counted that as his win.

“Fine, but don’t say that I didn’t warn you!”

+

[Present Day]

“Ahem! Gather ‘round, gather ‘round, folks, Jim, shut up for ten seconds about whatever you’re moaning about, I’m trying to talk. I’d like to propose a toast, ladies and gentlemen. To John Watson, the latest addition to our home. Welcome, John!”

Greg Lestrade was a handsome man perhaps in his late forties, maybe early fifties, with salt and pepper hair and a blindingly attractive smile. He raised his glass and the others around the table copied him, chanting, “Welcome, John!” like some sort of strange ritual hymn. John smiled nervously, taking a drink. It was very good wine.

“Let me introduce myself. I’m Greg, but call me Lestrade if you like. Sitting across from you is Molly, whom you’ve probably already met—”

John couldn’t help the slight grimace when he thought about the strange hand-smelling act that happened earlier, and Lestrade laughed. Molly flashed him a wink.

“Yes, I can tell you definitely met her. On your right is our lovely Jimmy—”

“ _Don’t_ call me Jimmy, Lestrade, or I’ll knock your vintage Marvel trading cards over again in your sleep!” hissed a pale, slender man with carefully combed-back hair. Lestrade huffed.

“Jim, then, who prefers being called Moriarty. You know Mrs. Hudson, the pork chops were marinated by her tonight, what a real treat, and at the end of the table is Sherlock Holmes.”

John looked over, and gulped.

Sherlock was a sight to behold, with his dark curls and sharp cheekbones. The thin purple button-up he wore stretched over a broad expanse of chest, leaving the tiny buttons straining to hold the fabric together. His thin fingers were laced together in front of his plate, drumming insistently over the back of his hands in a one-two, one-two beat.

And then, his eyes. Even with the distance between them, John could catch flashes of light blue, dark blue, golden yellow and tinges of green and aqua floating somewhere in between. It was like looking at the colours of the galaxy through a kaleidoscope.

John swallowed thickly and forced himself to tear his eyes away. “Uh, lovely meeting you all,” he stammered, raising his own glass. “To, uh, being good neighbours, and such. Um, yeah.”

A ripple of friendly laughter floated over the table and everybody toasted to him again.

“To being good neighbours indeed,” Lestrade repeated, and gave John a sharp smile.

Dinner was a quiet but hearty affair. Molly startled John with the heap of extremely rare steaks piled on top of her plate while Moriarty sipped haughtily at his cream of corn soup with steady dips of his spoon. Lestrade had a booming laugh and joked loudly with Mrs. Hudson throughout the whole meal, though perhaps it was because of all the wine he’d been drinking since dinner began. But Sherlock sat in silence, simply giving the occasional nod and shrug when addressed. Twice John accidentally caught his eye, and twice he found himself completely mesmerized before he managed to break eye contact, cheeks red as a tomato.

When the dinner plates were cleared and they’d all stuffed themselves full on Mrs. Hudson’s fantastic Devil’s Chocolate Cake, they regrouped in the comfy living room on the loveseat, beanbag chair, and armchairs. John found himself stuck between a beaming Molly and an irritable Moriarty.

“Thought we’d just go over some house rules before turning in,” Lestrade said, walking in with several brandies in hand. “Just some pet peeves and whatnots, so we can all live comfortably. We’re all friends, yes?” he added, giving a rather stern look around. Molly blinked innocently and Sherlock snorted as he steepled his hands under his chin, eyes gazing into the flickering fireplace. Lestrade grumbled, dropping into a lazyboy chair.

“Okay, I’ll go first. I work a night shift at St. Bart’s Hospital, so I usually get home real late, or early, depending on your perspective. So if you guys could just keep it down a little while making breakfast before you hooligans go off to work in daylight, y’know, that’d be kinda nice.”

John nodded. He’d been an army doctor while on the front lines.

“Also, you’ve probably noticed, John, I like my alcohol. Especially red wine, I’m a fiend for that and my mojitos. So, please, don’t touch my liquor. They’re my lifeline.”

“I haven’t moved in with an alcoholic, have I?” John asked jokingly, taking a sip of his brandy. Molly barked out a laugh, startling him.

“More like it’s his lifeline, _literally_ ,” she smirked, and Lestrade shot her a dirty glare.

“It’s medically prescribed to me; you’ve probably seen those health nuts online sprouting stuff about a glass of red wine a day improves your heart and prevents cancer and whatnot.”

“I see,” John said, not really seeing at all, but Lestrade seemed placated and sunk comfortably back into his chair with a wry smile on his face.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about the rest of us drinking on the job,” Molly smiled. “I’m a travel writer for a magazine, so I’m always out of the house going on little trips all over Europe for my little stories. You won’t even know I’m around half the time.”

“Travel writing,” John repeated, surprised. “I run a blog, seems like we’ve got something in common.”

Molly lit up, grinning wolfishly at him. “Cool!”

“I’m sure sitting in front of the computer does wonders for you complexion,” Moriarty sneered quietly, thumbing at the bottom of his pressed shirt.

“Don’t be a twat, Jim,” Lestrade sighed. “He’s always unpleasant,” he added for John’s benefit. “Don’t take it personally.”

“Just stay out of my room, Watson,” Moriarty hissed, getting swiftly to his feet. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m turning in for the night.” And with those lovely parting words, the man glided out of the room, nose turned up into the air. There was a pause before Mrs. Hudson turned to John with a gentle smile, folding her hands in her lap.

“If you need anything, John, don’t hesitate to ask,” she said softly. “I’m always on the first floor. I’ve got bingo on Wednesday evenings though, and luncheon with the ladies on Thursday afternoons. Otherwise, I’ll be around the house. I’ll just let you know that I keep the herbs for my bad hip in the storage room in the basement, though, and they’re all categorized, so if you’d be a dear and watch out for them, that’d be lovely.”

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson,” John said, inclining his head, and the old lady beamed at him.

“You’re such a dear,” she cooed. Lestrade snorted.

“I don’t think it’s your alphabetized herbs he should be worried about in the basement, Mrs. Hudson,” the man said wryly.

“What should I be worried about, then?” John asked, running his fingers along the neck of the bottle.

“Perhaps Lestrade means me,” a smooth, liquid baritone rumbled from the fireplace, and all eyes moved to Sherlock. John swallowed.

“You,” he repeated.

“Me,” Sherlock answered calmly, quirking the corner of his mouth. “Lestrade and Molly live on the first floor— this floor— and Moriarty has the attic. Mrs. Hudson prefers the sunshine and you’ve got the other room on the second floor, which leaves me with the basement rooms.”

“Uh, okay,” John said slowly. Sherlock inclined his head and was still for a moment before suddenly sweeping to his feet. He turned dramatically in front of the fireplace, fixing John with a piercing stare.

“I play the violin in my spare time to help simulate brain function, so if I’m stuck on something at three in the morning perhaps you might hear a bit of music coming from the basement so don’t be alarmed, this place isn’t completely haunted. Sometimes I can go for days without speaking and I won’t show up for meals so if you’re a stickler for table manners you’ll be sorely disappointed. I run my own experiments down in my room so I’d also appreciate it if you don’t mess with any of that either. I’ve got a smoking habit, but I usually take a fag outside in the backyard so it doesn’t stink up the house. Other than that, I have no other points or objections. Do you have anything you’d like for us to know?”

“I— what?” John spluttered. “N-not really. I mean, I don’t do much. I blog most of the time and I’m allergic to cat hair, that’s about it.”

The other corner of Sherlock’s mouth ticked upwards. “Very well,” he said. “I think we’ll get along swimmingly, don’t you?”

John opened his mouth, and then closed it. “Sure,” he said weakly. “It’s great to be neighbours.”

+

Things went surprisingly smoothly from that day onward. John made two more trips back to Harry’s place to gather the rest of his things and invited her over to take a look at his new home, just to soothe her worries. Harry had taken a tour through the place and had, grudgingly, agreed that it was suitable for John.

The residents of 221 B were quick, energetic people with tightly pack schedules and strange habits. Mrs. Hudson was always the first to get up, cheerfully tottering about with tea, coffee, or a tray of biscuits. Molly would head downstairs for a cuppa and then indulge in a morning jog in the woods behind their house, coming back for a shower before heading out to the magazine office. Moriarty hardly ever left his room, but Mrs. Hudson assured John that he actually ran a consulting business through phone because he had a ‘people phobia’. Lestrade would be asleep for the whole day after getting home at 4 am but would be out the door at 5 in the evening with Tupperware full of Mrs. Hudson’s meatloaf lasagna in one hand and his ‘medical’ red wine disguised in a coffee mug in the other for the hospital.

John quickly learned to navigate around his new house mates— Molly liked jogging alone for whatever reasons, the downstairs bathroom was right next to Lestrade’s room so it would be better for one to use the basement loo in case the flushing woke him up. Moriarty was to be avoided at all costs, but Mrs. Hudson was always pleased to make one’s company.

The only person John that still remained a mystery was, unsurprisingly, Sherlock.

The best phrase to describe Sherlock Holmes was “ _huh?_ ”. He rarely took coffee and could forgo his meals for up to three days at a time if he was particularly interested in an experiment. The door to the basement could be inexplicably locked for hours on end and no amount of hollering or pounding would get it to budge. Like Moriarty, Sherlock rarely ventured outside, but when he did he’d don his scarf, coat, and leather gloves no matter how hot it was. Sometimes there’d be small explosions that made dust fall from the ceiling, and sometimes sad violin music could go on for fourteen hours without stopping.

Sherlock was weird, but John found that he didn’t mind him at all. Life moved on, and John went out for meetings with Mike and Henry Knight, the nervous but eager young author publishing his new book, hunched over photoshop in the wee hours of the night with a mug of apple cider while designing his blog’s new banner, and indulged in a bit of daytime telly with Mrs. Hudson.

Then, two months into their new arrangement, trouble arrived on the doorstep.

Literally.

+

“Hello,” the blue-eyed, gorgeous brunette in the pearl-white dress said, leaning against the doorframe with her hip jutting out. “I’ve never met you before. Did you just move in?”

“Uh, yes,” John said, blinking. The lady smiled, snow-white teeth outlined by her brilliantly red lips, but didn’t say anything. The silence stretched on a little awkwardly, and John felt increasingly underdressed in his old wash jeans and his ratty purple cardigan. He was the only one at home other than Sherlock; Mrs. Hudson was shopping with Lestrade and Molly and Moriarty were both at work. There was also something very familiar about her, but John couldn’t pin it down.

“Uhm, can I help you?”

“Well, yes, presumably,” the lady replied rather cryptically, drumming her equally crimson fingernails along her smooth arm. “You’re not like the others, are you?”

John frowned. “Like who?”

If possible, the lady’s smile widened even more. “Ah, yes,” she said. “You’re not like them at all.”

“Pardon me?”

“Irene Adler,” the woman said, extending her hand elegantly for a shake. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance, John.”

“I— I didn’t tell you my name,” John stuttered, alarmed, and just as Irene Adler opened her mouth to speak there was a resounding _bang_ as the basement door burst open and smashed fiercely into the wall. Sherlock emerged a second later, a furious expression on his usually stoic face and—

“Are you fucking _naked_?” John shrieked, momentarily unable to tear his eyes away from the tiny towel clumsily wrapped around Sherlock’s waist. It did nothing to hide the sleek curve of the hipbone, the endless legs, or the lean torso still dripping with water. For goodness sake, there was still steam coming off the man.

“I’m not naked, John, I’ve got a towel around me, do keep up,” Sherlock growled, hitching the cloth higher as he stormed over to the doorway. Irene smirked, straightening up as she raked her eyes down Sherlock’s body in a sarcastic manner, and then, John realized: Irene’s eyes had the same kaleidoscopic effect to them, just like Sherlock’s.

“Sherlock, how _lovely_ to see you again.”

“Why are you here?” Sherlock snapped, towering over Irene, who wasn’t cowed in the least.

“Just a visit. I heard you had a new house mate, thought I’d come over to meet and greet.”

“You’ve got to be joking me. You don’t live here, you don’t _care_ who’s here. You dragged your slimy little self over for a reason and I could smell trouble off you from a mile away so I’ll ask you again: Why are you here?”

Irene sighed, brushing an imaginary strand of hair away from her face. “Harsh as always, I see.  Well, I suppose there’s no point of lingering anymore now that you’ve so kindly demonstrated how unwelcome I am, so goodbye for now, Mister Holmes.”

Sherlock scoffed scathingly, planting a hand on the door. “Rest assured, Miss Adler, keep poking your nose around and it’ll be goodbye _forever_.”

Irene smiled, though it was more baring of teeth than a real one. “We’ll see, Sherlock. And also, John,” she added, turning to give John a sharp grin, “It’s terribly impolite not to invite a lady into your home. I hope you’ll remember that.”

And then she was gone, sauntering down the front path back to the sleek sports car parked across the street. Sherlock sneered before slamming the door shut so violently a painting fell off the wall in the living room.

“What was that?” John spluttered. “Who was she? How did she know my name? Oh god, is she a stalker?”

“Calm down John, of course she’s not a stalker,” Sherlock growled, dragging a hand through his wet curls. “Irene Adler was the other tenant of 221 B before she…vacated the premises six months ago. Let’s just say that she and all of the other members of this house, including me, had an extreme disagreement that resulted in us parting ways. Highly unpleasant woman, so I’ll advise you to keep away from her at all costs.”

John swallowed audibly, clasping his hands. “Uh, okay.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, making eye contact for the first time, and then snorted a little. “There’s nothing to be worried about, she can’t come in. So I should mention that, no matter what she says, no matter how convincing or threatening or desperate she might sound, don’t let her in.”

“What if she tries to force her way in?”

Sherlock laughed. “That won’t happen,” he smirked. “Just never invite her inside verbally and everything will be fine.”

“I’m sure it’ll be,” John muttered.

“It will be,” Sherlock replied calmly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of my shower.”

A sudden wave of heat flooded John’s face, and he could only cough and immediately train his eyes onto the ceiling, trying very hard not to let his imagination run loose. Hah, _hard_. Wait— oh, dear lord.

“Right, so, yeah, you go do that Sherlock, and I’ll, um… yeah,” John stammered, cursing over and over in his head. In the corner of his eye, he could see the dark haired man grin before disappearing back into the basement. This was unacceptable. Sherlock Holmes may be very good looking and all, but John was _not_ a middle school girl. There was no reason for him to be flustered; it was just another bloke!

“By the way, John.”

John shrieked in surprise, leaping a foot off the ground before latching onto the rail to steady himself. Sherlock was leaning out of the doorway, an amused expression on his face.

“Your name’s on the plaque next to the doorbell, you know. We added it when you moved in. Just so you remember. Laterz!”

John felt his jaw drop, and in that moment, he wasn’t sure if he should feel stupid about forgetting the fact that _John H. Watson_ was indeed on a tag mounted over the doorbell, or utter disbelief at the notion that Sherlock would ever use the term ‘laterz’.

+

_Text From: S. Holmes_

_To: Molly Hooper, Lestrade, M. Hudson, Left-handed Twat_

_Code Red; she’s back. John answered the door for her._

_SH._

_Text From: Lestrade_

_To: Molly Hooper, M. Hudson, Jimmy M., S. Holmes_

_DID JOHN LET HER IN???_

_Text From: S. Holmes_

_To: Molly Hooper, Lestrade, M. Hudson, Left-handed Twat_

_Of course not, I was home. I sent her on her way._

_SH._

_Text From: Molly Hooper_

_To: Lestrade, M. Hudson, Jim Moriarty, S. Holmes_

_Christ, not again. Thought she was gone for good last time— why’s she back?_

_Text From: S. Holmes_

_To: Molly Hooper, Lestrade, M. Hudson, Left-handed Twat_

_Didn’t let her stay around long enough to find out. Upgrade precautions now and watch your backs when going out._

_SH._

_Text From: Lestrade_

_To: Molly Hooper, M. Hudson, Jimmy M., S. Holmes_

_Will do. Heading back with Mrs. Hudson soon. Will pick up Molly and Jim up along the way._

_Text From: Molly Hooper_

_To: Lestrade, M. Hudson, Jim Moriarty, S. Holmes_

_Thanks, Greg._

_Text From: Jim Moriarty_

_To: Molly Hooper, Lestrade, M. Hudson, S. Holmes_

_Don’t think that I didn’t notice  that you renamed my contact ‘Left-handed twat’ on your phone, Sherlock._

_Text From: S. Holmes_

_To: Molly Hooper, Lestrade, M. Hudson, Left-handed Twat_

_Whatever._

_SH._

+

Irene Adler wasn’t mentioned in the house again, but John couldn’t help but notice the tenseness in the air after her visit. There was always somebody home now, if not everybody at once. John would catch Mrs. Hudson peering out of the windows with a worried expression on her face every once in a while. Molly and Lestrade had taken to muttering amongst themselves all over the house and the explosions downstairs became more frequent than before. John knew better than to ask, but the atmosphere was stifling. A week after Irene’s visit, Mike called him for another meeting at the publishing office, and John gladly took a cab downtown that afternoon.

“John!” Mike called, all smiles and cheerfulness the minute John stepped out of the lift. “Good of you to come in today; Henry’s already here. You like your coffee black, right?”

“Yes, thanks,” John smiled, walking into the small office. “Hello, Henry, nice to see you again.”

“Same, same,” Henry replied breathlessly, shaking John’s hand. “Uh, first draft of my book’s been completed, thought you’d like to take a look through it yourself and make updates to the blog as necessary.”

“Wow, thanks,” John said, accepting the thick folder pressed into his hands. “I’m sure it’ll be amazing.”

Henry beamed.

The meeting ran late, and then the cab got stuck in rush hour traffic on the way back to 221 B. Taking the opportunity to familiarize himself with Henry’s new book, John flipped through the first half of the draft while the cab crawled through the street. It was a pretty decent book; intriguing, original, and humorous yet thrilling. Henry had even taken the liberty to include some of his own notes about mythological creatures and some hand-drawn diagrams, including several pictures of necromancers, shapeshifters and a circular symbol that was thought to be able to reveal any magical creature in the past. By the time he got back, the table was already set and dinner was hot on the table.

“John! You’re back!” Mrs. Hudson cried, rushing over to clasp his hand. “We didn’t know you were staying out late.”

“I didn’t plan to,” John said tiredly, rubbing his forehead. “Ended up chatting longer than expected and had to compete with rush hour in the cab. Is that Shepard’s pie on the table, Mrs. Hudson? It smells fabulous.”

“Oh, take a seat, John, you must be exhausted,” Mrs. Hudson said gently, taking his coat.

“C’mon, dinner’s getting cold!” Lestrade called, slapping an amiable hand on John’s back as he passed with a bowl of mashed potatoes.

“Coming, coming, wait, oh shit—”

The clasp of his briefcase had caught on the doorjamb, accidentally yanking his bag open, and everything spilled out: his phone, an extra sweater, pens and wallet and some spare change. The folder containing Henry Knight’s draft burst open, sending pages of writing and notes sliding all over the floor. The piece of paper with the circular symbol fluttered out last, coming to a rest on top of the mess.

Suddenly, there was _chaos_.

For a second John thought his eyes were deceiving him, but they weren’t; the symbol glowed brilliantly, like white hot flames, and then exploded with light. John yelled and staggered into the wall, trying to shield his eyes. He could hear Molly’s screams and Sherlock’s pained roar before realizing that it wasn’t just Sherlock yelling— something was _literally roaring_.

There was a terrifying rumbling noise, like a volcano about to erupt, and there was a giant shape growing, forcing the china cabinet back and overturning the table. A wolf’s howl suddenly pierced through the noise, high and pained, and the dinner table turned over with an almighty groan. Plates smashed. Food splattered everywhere. The chairs splintered as a massive… _thing_ crushed them into nothing but toothpicks before the light finally died out, leaving John blinking away spots in utter confusion and clinging to the wall for support.

The kitchen was a mess. Dinner was ruined, on the floor, and the papers of Henry’s draft were shredded and floating down from the ceiling like snow. Glass, porcelain and ceramics were scattered all over the ground with the remains of food littering the floor in lumps.

But that wasn’t all.

There was a giant, reptilian tail lying curled on the ground, covered in heavy spikes as thick as John’s forearm. The tail led up to a ridged back that brushed the ceiling, knocking dust off as the ribcage expanded as the creature breathed slowly, in and out. Smooth, leathery wings were folded tightly against its spine. Four legs were bent to accommodate to the packed space, with long, curved claws decorating the feet. There was a long neck, a horned head, rows and rows of teeth that looked like swords, and then the eyes. The eyes had the colours of the galaxy seen through a kaleidoscope— and they were fixed on him.

John a whimper work its way up his throat. It was a dragon, like the ones from fairytales and comic books and Tolkien’s _The Hobbit_ sitting in the kitchen of 221 B, and it had Sherlock Holmes’ eyes.

“John?”

John let out a laugh that sounded too high-pitched and breathy of his liking. Was it just him or was the floor tilting to one side?

“John, John, look at me!”

He turned, and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were both standing there, but they weren’t exactly _Lestrade_ or _Mrs. Hudson_. There was a man with bottomless black eyes and long, fanged canines looking worriedly at him, and an old woman with tendrils of tattoos inked around her face, neck, arms and hands that were covering her mouth.

“Who’re you?” John asked, a little hysterically.

“John, I’m Greg, I swear it’s me, it’s not—”

“Are those fangs?” John cried weakly, taking a step back. “Are those tattoos on Mrs. Hudson’s face? Why is there an overgrown komodo dragon in the kitchen?”

There was a low rumbling noise that seemed to rattle the very bones in John’s body, and then the dragon was turning its head to face the three of them, double-lidded eyes flickering back and forth over the giant orbs. John instinctively jumped away and nearly tripped on a furry body by his knees.

There was giant, chestnut-coloured wolf huddled mournfully on the ground, snuffling softly.

“What on earth is that?” he yelped, spinning away again.

“John, look, I have no idea what happened but you need to calm down, you’re hyperventilating!”

“This is weird, this is insane,” John stammered, clutching his head. “Where are my house mates? Why is there a wolf in the house now? What is going on?!”

“John, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said pleadingly, reaching out to him.

“Don’t touch me!” John shouted, feeling fear creep into his veins as his eyes rolled back and then—

— _bliss_.

+

Page: 314 of 805

“But that’s impossible!” Stephanie breathed. “That kind of stuff only happens in crappy supernatural teen romance stories!”

“Are you kidding?” Samantha whispered, staring in awe at the pack of wolves scattered around the edge of the cliff, bathed in the light of the full moon. “We just watched a bunch of people— three of them our classmates— turn into wolves. This is real.”

“Should we be here, then?” Stephanie asked, glancing nervously behind her. “We don’t know if they’re exactly friendly, do we?”

“Let’s go up and shake paws with them,” Samantha replied, hiding a smile. Stephanie shoved her irritably.

“Don’t joke around! This is serious!”

“Alright, alright, let’s go back. Katie’s going to flip out once she finds out about this anyway.”

“Oh, god, don’t even get me started. She’s been right all along.”

“I know eh?” Samantha mumbled as the two friends staggered back down the mountain path they’d climbed up on earlier. “Werewolves actually exist. Who’d have thought?”

[Excerpt from Henry Knight’s latest novel— title to be decided]

+

John had sat in the comfy armchair by the fire before, but it was usually when enjoying a beer with Molly or playing a game of Monopoly with Mrs. Hudson, not when a vampire and a witch sat tensely side-by-side on the sofa with a werewolf curled up on the rug while a dragon sat stretched through the hall, rolled his tail in the kitchen and left his head in the doorway of the living room. Every time he breathed, the floor rattled with the rumble on his throat. John clutched at his glass of vodka, taking deep soothing breaths.

“Okay,” he said slowly, and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson looked up hopefully. “So, you’re telling me that none of you are human?”

“Yes,” Lestrade admitted, tapping his feet on the ground.

“You’re a vampire from the dawn of time and all the medical red wine you’ve been drinking isn’t actually wine?”

“Yes,” Lestrade said again. The black eyes were rather disconcerting, but his tone was honest.

“Mrs. Hudson is a witch?”

“I am, dear, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Hudson said sadly, brushing the mystical tattoos along her arm.

“No, no, it’s not— I just—” John said hastily, waving his hand. “You don’t have to be, you know, sorry for who you are. It’s just that, well, this isn’t something that happens every day, right?”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled weakly, eyes a little teary. “I suppose not, no,” she laughed.

“Right,” John breathed, managing a smile on his own. “And, uh, the werewolf is Molly?”

The wolf barked cheerfully in reply, wagging her tail.

“Where’s Moriarty?”

“Well, uh, Jimmy’s a ghost,” Lestrade explained. “In his normal state you actually can’t see him.”

The light suddenly flickered rather violently and Lestrade sighed irritably. “Right, not Jimmy, _Jim._ ”

“Right. And the dragon is…Sherlock?”

The dragon growled deeply in reply.

“Right,” John repeated. “This is…new. How come you’ve all suddenly…changed?”

Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson exchanged looks.

“That piece of paper that fell from your briefcase,” Lestrade sighed. “It’s got a Revealing seal on it.”

“Revealing seal?”

“We can’t go around looking like _this_ all the time,” Lestrade explained, gesturing to himself and the others. “Our normal images are our imaginary human counterparts. It’s a projection of our magic. The seal breaks our projection and cancels out any magical spells or properties. We can’t change back until a Reversal spell is conjured by you.”

“By me?” John stammered. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the one who unleashed it before us,” Mrs. Hudson explained. “It can only be reversed by your hand.”

“But I didn’t draw this! The guy whose book I’m promoting did!”

“Nonetheless, it came from your possession. Only you can break the spell now,” Lestrade said, looking immensely sorry.

“Great,” John groaned, sliding down in his seat. “Until then, you’ll all look like this?”

Molly woofed sadly in affirmation.

“How does a Reversal spell work?”

“Well, it’s essentially the same thing: a design similar to that circular one. You need to draw it and then light it up with holy fire, and we’ll be able to look normal again.”

John rubbed his temples, exhaling slowly. “Where am I going to get holy fire?”

“Mrs. Hudson has spells to create them,” Lestrade said, waving his hand. “You just need to draw the design and set it over us. Easy as pie.”

“Right,” John said skeptically. “Any of you know how to draw a Reversal spell?”

There was a pause, and Sherlock exhaled a plume of thick smoke the whooshed past them all.

“Well, no,” Lestrade confessed. “It was designed by humans, you know, and, uh, we actually can’t see the design. It was used in the past at things like village gatherings so that humans could force supernatural beings to reveal their true nature and then hunt them down. It kinda defeats the purpose if we can recognize the design and flee the scene before they catch us.”

“Oh,” John said. “That’s…well.”

“Yeah.”

A photo frame on the table wobbled, and then fell over, shattering on the floor. Molly barked grouchily.

“Oh, dear, I think Jim wants to remind us about Irene,” Mrs. Hudson said softly. Sherlock growled, making the coffee table rattle against the floor. John felt his stomach clench.

“What about Irene?”

Lestrade slanted Sherlock a side-glare, meeting the bright cerulean eyes with his own jet black ones. “I know you hate this story, Sherlock, but John’s gotta know the gravity of the situation.”

If a dragon could scowl, Sherlock was definitely doing it.

“Right, here’s the story,” Lestrade sighed. “I don’t know if you’ve already noticed before, but Irene and Sherlock are actually quite…similar.”

John raised an eyebrow. “By similar, do you mean she’s a dragon as well?”

“Yes, she is,” Lestrade replied. “Irene’s a dragon too, from Southern Wales, I think. Feisty things, Southerners. Honestly, Sherlock, you should’ve known better, I thought firedrakes in the North had better sense than to mingle with the wrong crowd.”

Sherlock snarled, showing his teeth, and Mrs. Hudson nudged Lestrade. Molly whined.

“Well, Irene used to board with us, here, and I’m pretty sure she had something going on with Sherlock—”

There was a loud crashing sound, which probably meant that Sherlock had thumped his tail angrily and knocked over another cabinet.

“Stop interrupting!” Lestrade yelled. “Anyway, thing is, dragons like their treasure. Actually, they like all kinds of treasure. And Irene was a bit handsy with certain things that weren’t hers, like some of Sherlock’s posessions. So we banished her from 221 B and set up a Barrier spell around the house. Unless somebody invites her inside, she can’t get in at all, hence why Sherlock told you that day not to let her in no matter what. Dragons are defensive about their treasure, John, understand that. Irene crossed the line that day, and to be honest, she wasn’t exactly friendly with us either, so nobody was particularly upset to see her go. She’s been biding her time, waiting to get back in ever since. She doesn’t like losing.”

“So, when you say that the Revealing seal cancels out all magical properties…”

“I mean that Irene can waltz over the front step and we won’t be able to do a thing about it,” Lestrade said, and John felt a chill down his spine at the thought of the sharp-toothed woman going through his things. That, or maybe it was Moriarty breathing down his neck for shits and giggles.

“I suppose I should get a move on that Reversal spell as quickly as possible then,” John said. Everybody in the room nodded at once, even Sherlock, whose horns gouged deep grooves into the ceiling with every twitch of his head.

“Right,” John muttered, downing the rest of his vodka. “I’m gonna need a stronger drink.”

+

Things also went surprisingly smoothly from that day onward, or as smoothly as things could go when there was a dragon stuffed into a house. John called in to excuse everybody from work and left fifteen messages on Henry’s voicemail begging him to call back. They spent the first day with all the curtains drawn tightly shut and sweeping the mess from the night before. Sherlock watched them with bored interest, lifting a powerful leg whenever they needed to collect debris from under him. Molly tottered about, dragging garbage bags to the door once they were full. Every once in a while, John would feel a sudden draft, which probably meant he’d accidentally walked through Moriarty again.

A mandatory trip to the supermarket had John staggering into the house with twenty-two bags of steak and a box of dog treats to cap it off. The day came and left without any further difficulties, and John found himself sitting on a stool in the living room carefully lining bloody steaks up on a fireproof tarp for Sherlock to burn. The dragon looked pleased at the selection before a deep rattling noise filled the room and a spout of flames burst forth from Sherlock’s jaw, instantly incinerating the meat. John shielded his eyes until the other was done and happily munching on his dinner.

“Y’know, that makes me wonder if your awful smoking habit was a cover for this,” John joked, watching Sherlock scrape up another slab. The dragon rumbled, fixing him with a piercing stare. The double-lidded eyes flickered, and John couldn’t help but feel completely trapped under the unbreakable gaze. Silence stretched on between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, it was rather breathtaking to be in the presence of such a majestic creature practically jammed into a building the size of a dollhouse in comparison to it. John swallowed roughly.

If he were being honest, Sherlock was just as majestic in human form as he was in dragon form.

“ _Now I’ve got a confession~ When I was young I wanted attention~ And I promised myself that I’d do anything~ Anything at all for them to notice me~_ ”

John yelped, fumbling in his pocket for his cell phone. “Jesus, what the hell? This isn’t my ringtone!”

Sherlock rumbled in his throat; the fucker, he was probably laughing, and it was probably Moriarty who snuck his phone out and changed it. John flushed a bright red, muting the Pussycat Doll lyrics before glancing at the caller ID: Henry Knight.

“Hello, Henry?” John said quickly, picking up.

“Hey, John? You rang earlier? I’m guessing it’s kinda important, y’know, since you left about fifteen voicemails.”

“Right, yeah, that,” John mumbled, scratching his neck. “It is urgent. Do you remember the notes you gave me yesterday at the meeting with Mike?”

“Yeah?”

“There was a symbol that could be used to reveal any supernatural being. You drew it yourself.”

“Oh, yeah, the Revealing seal. Pretty cool, eh? Part of my research.”

“Right, yeah, I was wondering if you’ve heard of a Reversal spell? One that can reinstate supernatural beings their powers? It’s kind of important.”

“Uh, it might take me a while to look it up. I’ll be writing throughout the night, though, so text you if anything pops up then from my research then, how about that?”

“Great, that’d be great, thanks,” John said, sighing a little with relief. “Thanks for your help, Henry.”

“No problem. Bye, John.”

The call ended, and John collapsed back into his seat. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

There was another rumble, and Sherlock gave John and demanding look with his mesmerizing eyes.

“What? Are you already done eating—? Oh, for fuck’s sake, we’re already out of steak, Sherlock, control your appetite.”

Sherlock placed his head down on the floor and pouted mournfully, watching the flames flicker in the fireplace instead. John watched him and scratched his eyebrow, sighing. It was going to be a long night.

+

_Text From: Henry Knight_

_To: John Watson_

_Here’s the symbol you were looking for— I scanned it for you._

_Attached: photo.jpg 219K_

_View | Download_

+

“This is it,” Lestrade said, nodding at once. “None of us can see anything on your screen.”

“Nothing at all?” John pressed.

“Nothing,” Lestrade affirmed. “Is it different from the Revealing seal you saw yesterday?”

The symbol was also circular, but the pattern inside of it was different. John nodded, and Lestrade exhaled.

“That’s your symbol then.”

“Wonderful,” John said. “So— I need to draw it out? Set the holy fire onto it, and then shazam?”

“We’ll be normal again,” Lestrade confirmed.

“Great,” John muttered. “Great. I’m going to get started now. I’ll print this, trace it, and then drop a match on it. Great.”

Molly woofed in agreement.

It took about five minutes to print from his laptop upstairs, another minute spent carefully tracing the symbol while Mrs. Hudson set aside a dish of oil and strange herbs for the holy fire, and then John found himself back in the living room again with Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Sherlock, and presumably Moriarty gathered around him. The holy fire was burning brightly in a dish on the coffee table, and John slowly held the symbol over the flame.

“Here goes nothing,” he said, and then set it on fire.

The paper burned.

And burned.

And turned into ash.

Nobody dared to move, but nothing happened. A minute passed, but still, nothing.

“That was dramatic,” Lestrade muttered.

“It didn’t work,” John frowned. “Why didn’t it work?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the fire,” Mrs. Hudson said nervously. “I’ve always used holy fire to boil my potions, and it’s not difficult to make.”

“Maybe there’s something wrong with the symbol?” Lestrade suggested as Molly sniffed as the ashes on the table.

“Maybe,” John frowned. “I swear I copied it exactly though. I’ll try again.”

“Please,” Lestrade groaned, and they were back to square one.

They spent the rest of the day drawing and burning the papers, but nothing. A little pile of ash had begun to grow over the flickering flames, but no matter how carefully John traced over the symbol, it didn’t work. Hours passed, evening fell, and frustrations were running high.

“That’s it,” John groaned, sweeping the latest pile of failed symbols into the bin. “I am heading out. Between Sherlock and Molly they’ve cleared the meat already.”

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Hudson asked worriedly. “It’s getting late…”

“I need a breather,” John groaned. “I’ll be back soon, don’t worry.”

“Molly should go with you,” Lestrade said, but John shook his head.

“She’s the size of a small bear, I can’t possibly walk down the street without getting attention. And if Irene’s hanging about she’ll definitely recognize Molly and realize something’s up.”

“And buying twenty bags of steaks won’t alert her?”

John shrugged. “She could think I’m having a dinner party, I don’t know. Either way, steak is not as suspicious as a werewolf, you’ve gotta admit it.”

“Fine,” Lestrade grumbled, rubbing his black eyes. “Be back quick.”

“Will do,” John replied, and then he was out the door, pulling on his coat and shivering a little in the wind. He never would’ve thought his life would include buying raw meat for a dragon. Harry’s going to have a field day, John thought wearily to himself as he pushed the shopping cart down the aisle, lugging bag after bag of frozen steaks into the trolley.

“ _Attention shoppers: we will be closing in approximately fifteen minutes._ ” a disembodied voice on the PA announced. “ _Please proceed to the cashiers as soon as possible. Happy Neighbours Supermarket wishes you an enjoyable evening._ ”

“Fuck,” John groaned, digging into his pocket for his phone. Was it almost 8 pm already? His frozen fingers fumbled with his mobile and it slipped out of his hand, clattering onto the ground underneath the freezer. Cussing, John leaned down to pick it up— and then stopped.

His phone had opened Henry Knight’s text when it hit the ground, and John could see the image of the Reversal spell, but he could also see the reflection of the Reversal spell against the metal side of the freezer…and it looked _awfully_ familiar.

His brain kicking into high gear, John instantly scooped up his phone and abandoned his shopping cart. Making a mad dash for the cosmetic aisle, he grabbed the first mirror on display and held his phone up to it, and his suspicions were instantly confirmed.

The symbol for the Reversal Spell was just a reflection of the Revealing spell. But there was something different from what John remembered: there was an extra stroke in one of the smaller circles on the symbol.

The words of Henry’s text came back to him almost at once— _I scanned it for you_.

John was willing to bet that a mere smudge on the scanner’s surface was the reason why the spell was off.

“Jesus Christ,” he blasphemed, closing his hand tightly around his phone. Spinning around, he grabbed one of the eyeliners sitting in the bins, uncapped it, and scrawled the proper Reversal spell onto his palm.

Then, John closed his fist and began to sprint back home.

+

Let it be known that Moriarty, despite being constantly unpleasant and absent throughout John’s duration at 221 B, was still a very competent house mate.

John had burst back into the house, a shout on the tip of his tongue, and had found a message scrawled on the mirror in the hallway with Mrs. Hudson’s signature cranberry sauce _GET OUT JOHN_.

It was messy and ghostly and so ominous that John had backed out at once, his heart in his throat, and then there was in his ear, purring, “Why _hello_ , John Watson,” and then a hand with razor-sharp claws was at his throat.

“Don’t even think about it,” Irene Adler warned. “I can cut through your jugular faster than a hot knife through butter.”

“I’m not thinking about it,” John hissed through gritted teeth.

“Good,” Irene said. “Come on now, let’s join the others.”

+

There was a glowing ring carved onto the floor as John slowly walked in, Irene behind him. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Moriarty and Sherlock were crowded behind it, clearly a barrier. The sofa and coffee table, with the holy fire still burning in it, were shoved carelessly by the wall. Mrs. Hudson gasped when Irene forced John in and Molly’s hackles rose, but they were both drowned out by the fiercest snarl John had ever heard vibrating through Sherlock’s body. The dragon looked livid with his pupils in slits and the angry baring of fangs.

“Oh, shut up, you,” Irene snapped. “You don’t scare me at all, Sherlock; quite frankly, I’m less than impressed at how quickly you got caught. Getting a bit lazy now, are we?”

“Leave John alone,” Lestrade interrupted angrily. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”

Irene smirked. “Nothing to do with this at all. Why, pray tell, did you even let this human into your house? You’ve always been such a cowardly bunch, hiding behind your projections and fearing the outside world.”

“We don’t fear it,” Mrs. Hudson said quietly. “We respect it. This isn’t some power play or a game, Irene. We simply want to coexist.”

“Humans are weak,” Irene hissed. “They’ve made you weak; look at you lot. The minute I threaten him you’ve turned into jelly.”

“What do you want?” Lestrade demanded.

Irene sneered. “What I’ve always wanted. Sherlock, you know what I’m talking about.”

All eyes swiveled over to the dragon. Nobody spoke, but then:

_No._

A voice— Sherlock’s voice— was suddenly pulsating through John’s skull, to the point of almost being painful, deep and rich as it were in his human form.

“You can talk?!” John cried.

_Of course I can, John, I’m a dragon. I’m gifted with telepathy amongst other things. The only reason why I don’t talk to you is because your mind is too fragile to handle my voice._

“Like I said, weak,” Irene smiled. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how protective you are of little John Watson, Sherlock. Came dashing up the stairs the instant I knocked! Almost as though you knew I would kill him the minute he let me in.”

“You were going to kill me?” John spluttered. “Now that’s impoliteness, Miss Adler.”

“Indulge me,” Irene said lazily, tightening her claw around John’s throat. “I’m done with the games, Sherlock. Give me the code for your Swiss bank account and maybe there won’t be blood covering your floors tonight.”

_What makes you think my answer will change now?_

“Do not test me,” Irene growled, scraping her claws across the skin, breaking the surface to bring up beads of blood. Sherlock tilted his head, exhaling another puff of smoke, and John knew at that moment that the dragon was going to give in.

“Don’t!” he burst out before he could stop himself.

_Don’t?_

“Don’t give her the access code,” John said quickly. “Don’t do it.”

Irene laughed. “What a lovely little hero,” she said, her voice cold.

 _You’ll die, John_.

“I won’t,” John said firmly. “Humans are quite callous beings, you know.”

_John—_

“Enough!” Irene shouted, and John broke into action. Ingrained training kicked in and he dug his elbow back into Irene’s solar plexus, momentarily winding her, and then he dove for the coffee table, where the holy fire was burning in its dish. Clenching his jaw, he thrust his palm with the eyeliner drawing of the Reversal spell into the flames.

_JOHN!_

There was pain, and John couldn’t help but yell out as his palm glowed a vibrant, gleaming red, and then light burst forth so fiercely from the symbol that he was thrown back into the wall. Irene staggered away with a scream and then Sherlock was shrinking, Molly was shooting upwards, Lestrade’s fangs vanished, Mrs. Hudson’s tattoos faded and Moriarty was rapidly taking a corporal form once more.

The light had barely faded before Sherlock was launching himself forwards, claws extended, sending himself and Irene hurtling out of the bay window with a dramatic shattering of glass. Mrs. Hudson shrieked and everybody crowded around, watching Sherlock manhandle Irene to the edge of the lawn.

“You will leave,” he thundered, anger rolling off him in waves. “And you will never return. You will never harm John Watson again and if you do, you will die where you stand.”

Irene stepped back, bleeding from a scrape to her face, panting harshly. Her expression was murderous but she clearly had had enough.

“Very well,” she snapped. “Ally yourself with that weakling. See if you’ll ever hold any respectability again.”

From the distance, John could still see the twitch of Sherlock’s lips into a smirk. “That ‘weakling’ burned his own hand to bring us back. I think I’ll be just fine here, Miss Adler.”

Irene glared before strolling furiously away down the street to her car, heels clicking steadily. They watched her drive away until she was nothing but a speck in the distance, hopefully for good this time.

“John, dear, are you alright?”

John jumped as Mrs. Hudson touched his elbow gently, her face lined with worry.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson, really, it’s just a little— ouch! Well, maybe it’s a little painful…”

“Let me see that.”

John looked up, startled, and watched as Sherlock leapt gracefully through the broken window and landed next to John. Long, thin fingers took John’s burnt hand carefully, tracing over the edges of the angry red skin. John could feel his face burning even hotter than his hand.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s nothing a bit of cream can’t fix,” he protested, and Sherlock fixed him with an incredulous look.

“ _Cream_? Such a primitive choice. Don’t bother, John, this is far more efficient.”

And then Sherlock was raising John’s hand to his lips, and he was breathing softly over it. A gust of icy air tickled John’s palm and he watched in fascination as the skin cleared and the pain vanished, leaving nothing behind, not even a scar.

“How…?”

Sherlock grinned. “I may be a firedrake, but I can perform magic too, you know.”

“That’s…fantastic,” John murmured, inspecting his hand. “Thanks, Sherlock.”

“No, John,” Sherlock said quietly, casting a look around at everybody else. “We thank _you_.”

+

_www.morethanjusthuman.uk/interactiveblog_

_Home | About the Author| Quizzes and Games| Pre-Order Your Book Online!| Meet the Blogger_

_More than just Human_

_A novel by Henry Knight_

_Summary: Best friends Samantha and Stephanie are in their last year of high school. They expect the usual to happen: graduation, prom, senior pranks, and all that fun stuff. But this year, several new students have suddenly transferred to the school, and strange things have been happening since day one. When Samantha’s cousin Katie unearths an age-old secret, it’ll be the adventure of a lifetime for the three girls as they encounter beings that are more than just humans._

_Rating: 3 out of 4 stars (The Daily Report)_

_“Superb and hilarious read!”_

-          _Hilary Picker, Teen’s Choice Reads_

_“Fantastic and original”_

-          _David Whin, London Gazette_

_“Knight manages to overcome the cliché girl-meets-wolfboy storyline and made something that’s fun to read for kids of all ages! You’ve got to see this!”_

-          _Sophie Hatter, National Press_

_Published by Bartholomew Inks 2013_

_Web Design by John H. Watson_

+

“Are you kidding? Werewolves are nothing like the way this guy wrote them!”

“Oh, stop the whining, Molly, you’ve seen nothing yet. Vampire stories for the teen audiences are practically revolting.”

“Why is it that everybody forgets about the ghosts, hm? Are we that easily forgettable? Do these people need a good haunting to remind them of our existence?”

“My goodness, you’re all such children. Have a biscuit and settle down now.”

“Mrs. Hudson, you forget that ordinary people have the brain function levels of a sloth; there’s no use trying to persuade them to do differently.”

“Is that so, Sherlock? Does being a mighty little dragon make you better than us now?”

“John, you haven’t lived with this lot long enough yet, just you wait and see.”

“You say that as though I’ll be around long enough to see it all.”

“Of course. You love Mrs. Hudson’s cooking too much to part from it, you’re mysteriously fond of Lestrade, Moriarty and Molly for reasons best known to myself and you are attracted to me on an intimate level, which shouldn’t be that surprising since I am very desirable.”

“…I’m not sure whether or not I should just punch you in the face now, Sherlock.”

“You may punch my lips with your lips if you so wish.”

“…deal.”

“Oh my god guys! Get a _room_!”

+

_End_


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